Torch in the Night
by Tysh34
Summary: As her children reach the age when she met Tyrion, Tysha reflects on how they met and their short marriage when her son asks her about the husband of her youth. tyrion/tysha/OC My first GOT fic, reviews appreciated!;)


**Been thinking about a story involving Tysha and Tyrion. I'd like to see more tysha/tyrion fics out there! I know they have a tragic past together but she was also Tyrion's first true love and beloved wife and she was NEVER a prostitute as Tywin had Jaime lie to Tyrion (Jaime admits this to Tyrion when he frees him) **

**This is a POV of Tysha remembering Tyrion, enjoy, reviews are highly appreciated! Thank You!**

I loved your face. I told you I did. I spoke true. When your brother chased off those wicked men and you knelt down to help me up from the dirt…one of your eyes glowed like a leaf pierced by a sunray and the other was dark as a secret.

Both of them were wide with worry at my miserable state.

Do you ever think back to our first encounter? I used to think of it often. Always. When I see my neighbors and their spouses sharing a kiss, a jest, a cup of ale. How would life with you at my side be now? Our fourteen days together as husband and wife were some of the most blissful I've ever had.

Had my father never died I would have never left our croft in desperation, never walked down that godforsaken road, never been attacked by those bastards. Never met you. You took your cloak, a thick burgundy cloak, and put it over my shoulders to cover my naked back where those scoundrels had torn the back off my bodice.

Like a lord for his lady-bride. That same cloak served as bedding later when you took my maidenhead.

Do you remember?

My father was a bitter man. My mother was often too weary for smiles and songs. After three failed pregnancies and no sons, my poor mother took to her grave after a life of toiling in the fields. Not the first or the last to die before her eighteenth name day. Such is the life of the small-folk. I was his only surviving child, but her death did not bring us closer. He longed for a son, the key to a better life. A knight. A master. A smith. Or just a stronger hand in the fields to satiate our hunger. Not be further burdened with a small gangly daughter in need of a dowry. I cared for him the best I could, tried to do as ma had done. Tend the chickens, feed the ox, barter our eggs for some bread in the village, thin the milk to make it last, gather berries from the woods.

But I could never fill her spot and I never earned his smiles. His voice remained hard till the fever took him.

When you touched my hand and smiled at me, I smile that blazed like a torch in the night, I felt as though my feet had sprouted roots into the ground below. The moonlight caressed your jaw and nose, and made your hair glow in the night like hair-of-corn. But it was your voice. Yes. It was your voice. So deep and rich for a flowering lad.

The sweet, gentle music it made when you spoke made butterflies tickle my insides.

They all laughed and jeered as they shoved their fingers and cocks in my mouth and between my legs and in every crevice they could find. They did all this before your eyes while I cried and screamed from the pain, gagging and vomiting. Your father ordered me to pick up the silver stags every time one of them finished and count them out loud, "For your services tonight".

And then you took me last.

Your father grabbed you by the nape of the neck and dragged you to where I lay huched on the bed, head down, too weak and sore to rise.

"Lady Tysha. But you are not a Lady anymore. You are no longer my son's wife. You are a whore. You were always just a whore after his gold, were you not?"

His voice is not mocking, nor gentle, nor sarcastic. It is devoid of any emotion. It is icy-cold and hard as the pile of silver before me. I wished to protest, but my throat was so sore from their cocks, my tongue too raw from their bites, and I was too ashamed to look up because then I'd have to see you standing there, looking down at what they'd made of me: a whore, covered in blood, sweat, tears, vomit, and seed. I shut my eyes in shame to keep more tears from falling and bit my lip before the sobs could escape again, but failed.

He pressed a gold dragon into your hand, and then …

…and then I hoped you would kneel again, help me up, and cover my nakedness with your cloak like before. Wipe away my tears and tell me "I'm here, I'll protect you" like you did that night on that road.

What you did next tore my soul in half.

You dropped your breeches to your ankles, your manhood already raised.

You kneeled and pushed me on my back.

I had no energy nor will to resist.

You forced my limp, bruised legs apart as they roared with deafening laughter.

I closed my eyes.

I tried to escape my nightmare.

I opened them.

You spilled yourself inside me.

And writhed on top of me with your eyes closed.

Then you pressed the coin in my hand, paid me one gold dragon "because a Lannister is worth more".

Then you stood up, pulled up your breeches, turned around, and walked away. You did not look back.

Not once.

I took my "payment" because I had nothing and no one left. The steward, a bald, fat man, offered to arrange for a ship to take me to Braavos, "To begin a new life, there's nothing left for you here child". I slept deep in the woods behind my father's croft that night, with the bag of silver as a pillow and the stars looking down on my disgrace. I couldn't bear to set foot in my parents shack, even though they were dead and gone. How happy Pa would've been to see so much silver. In the morning, I tied the bag under my filthy skirt and made my way to…well…nowhere really.

Every step sent savage pain through my legs and the place between them, but hunger urged me on.

It's been near thirteen years since our marriage was cut short. I want to hate you, and sometimes I do. But, as of late, my memories of you bring sadness and longing more often than hate. Sometimes when I look at them I believe I see some trace of you in their faces. But at other times I'm glad I don't know who their father is, even if that father were you.

I lived in inns and taverns for nearly a year on my journey away from Casterly rock. As my middle expanded, the bag of silver shrunk. I found work in the home of a kind elderly master. Maester Merlin. After watching me retch one day at the market, he coaxed out my sad tale and took pity on my monstrous belly. He offered me payment and a room in his house in exchange for my services as his housekeeper. A month later, the pains came.

They were all born on a cold morning.

Phillip was first, a tiny thing with a head too large for his body and a grip too tight for a babe. Then Terrence, who announced his arrival with ear-splitting hollers that woke half the village. The Maester told me Susan smiled at him when he caught her as she left my loins. Arthur followed seconds after his sister, his eyes already wide open, alert, and bright as stars, Scarlett's pitiful mews proved a deceiving cover for her tiny sharp tooth that nearly tore off my teat when she suckled for the first time. I labored nearly till noon with Opal who finally came out with a head-full of thick dark hair, placidly sucking her thumb. Peter refused to come out, so the Maester had to cut a slit under my navel to reach in and pluck him out.

Now that they are reaching the age at which we met, I can't' help but wonder if they look like you. Like us. Our sweet babes. The Maester gave me seven pearls strung on a red silk cord as a gift on the day of their birth. "The oyster dies" he said "but the beauty they create adorns the crowns and necks of Kings". My pearls nearly killed me coming into the world, but this oyster is strong.

Phillip is a dwarf, with a mass of amber curls, dark eyes, and my funny ears. He is my first-born, and as such, my right hand.

Terrence is so tall, and shining, and golden. And a hopeless case. He takes perverse pleasure in making us choke with laughter with his endless antics and songs.

Susan cannot hear, but Maester has taught us to talk to her with our hands. But I can read her face, round nose, wide expressive brow, smiling eyes, big red lips, like a book. And her sweet, smiling blue eyes under her dark hair are the only "I love you" I need to hear.

Arthur is a bully, but in a jesting manner most of the time. He is tall, stocky, and broad shouldered, with a fine chiseled nose that hooks slightly and teasing blue eyes deep as a dream.

Scarlett is a proper little lady with a will of iron. The village lads have crowned her queen of the harvest three years in a row. Her rosy-gold hair, full pink lips, and voluptuous figure have brought several lads asking for her hand. Her mismatched blue and green eyes only add to her allure.

Opal is as restless as a monkey in a cage and chatters as much as one too. I love braiding her abundance of thick black hair, though she prefers arguing with her siblings and discussing remedies and herbs with the Maester.

And Peter, gentle Peter, is tall as a bean stalk with long elegant limbs. I've been often told he resembles me most, with his oval face, pouty lips, and downturned nose. Except he has honey-brown hair and eyes the color of sea foam.

He asked me about you last night.

I asked them what they'd like for their name-day. Requests for a new quiver of arrows, a red cloak, hair ribbons, silver needles, "a barrel of ale, three roast swans, and a suit of armor, in that order", a tortoise guitar pick, and a kitten were immediately given. They all got a mince pie. That night, after our small buy joyous celebration, I found Peter in the garden on his back looking up at the stars.

"Pet, love, what are you doing down there?" I asked laughing.

He looked quite comical really, sprawled on the grass with his arms over his head and legs apart, you'd think he was a star that fell from the sky and crashed on the grass. He propped himself up and gave a grin. But I saw a sorrow in his eyes. Then he stared down at his lap.

"Ma, do I… do you think…do you think any of us…do any of us look like him?" he finally stammered.

"Look like who love?" I asked confused. He hesitates for a moment, as if deciding whether to tell me or not.

"I heard you talking to Maester once…about the boy you married…Tyrion"

I felt my heart skip a beat.

I've never told them about you. I was honest with them about the nature of their conception. A garrison of guardsmen raped their mother, a common girl, and this resulted in her becoming with child. Children. Septuplets, as Maester calls them. Sometimes powerful men are wicked, I explained, and the raping of low-born girls is a sad reality. I could not tell them who their father was or where he was because I myself did not know.

"Oh" is all I can whisper.

He treads carefully, "I didn't mean to pry…but…can… will you tell me about him, about Tyrion? If you want to, though, of course!" he adds hurriedly. Your name coming from his lips brings back a flood of memories, though at that moment I only remember the happy ones. I feel a lump in my throat. Hot tears roll down my cheeks. Peter jumps to his feet and takes me by the shoulders.

"Im sorry Ma!" His eyes are wide with worry and his voice is shaking, full of concern

"I –I—I didn't want to make you sad! I'm so stupid! Please don't cry! I'll…Oh Ma...I'm so sorry" I look up into his face. The moonlight makes his hair glow like hair-of-corn.

I smile and hug him tight.

We walk down to the river hand in hand. His fingers have become rough and calloused from that longbow. Huntsmen must be tough. But they are warm and hold mine gently as though carrying a baby bird. I tell him how we met, how we married, and how it ended. How he tore us apart. And the details in between. How your father forced you on me. He hates your father now. He floods me with questions, and I find myself remembering things I swore to bury and forget. He is surprised to learn you are a dwarf, and laughs "Well, that explains why Pip stopped growing years ago!"

I tell him of what I remember about your family "Tyrion Lannister, of Casterly Rock, that's his name, but I only liked Tyrion" I sigh. I tell him what you told me about Jaime and Cersei and your father. How you loved Jaime, loathed Cersei, and feared your father, Lord Tywin, as well as the little bit you told me about your uncles and how kind they were to you.

There is a fire in his eyes I've never seen before, a liveliness that comes to his face at the mention of your name. I believe I see some of him in you. His nose is mine, but it becomes flared and doughy at the nostrils and tip, like yours. His face is a not near-perfect oval either. His jaw has a rectangular angle that curves softly well below his ear and advance toward his chin gracefully. Like yours. His brows are slightly deep set under an ample forehead hiding under a curtain of bangs of mixed brown and honey-blonde hairs, and the big amber birthmark on his neck…I tell him so.

And I swear that, through the veil of tears falling from his eyes,

the smile he gave me blazed like a torch in the night.


End file.
